Escape to the Mind Palace
by Kracks
Summary: When all hope is gone, the only place to escape to is the Mind Palace. I really loved the visualisation of Sherlock's mind palace in season 3. Therefore I wrote this story. I'm really sorry, I'm not a native speaker and translated everything into english by myself. I hope it's not too bad.


**Escape to the Mind Palace**

„How much time is left? ", John was picking the arm rest.  
"Not much. They are nearly here." said Sherlock quietly. He looked at his best friend who was sitting in the armchair opposite to him. John squeezed the union jack pillow under his arm so that the flag warped into an abstract pattern.  
Sherlock enjoyed to look at him and to listen to his voice. It made him feel comfortable.  
"No matter what is going to happen," said John. "I want you to know that I will always be there for you. Please don't give up having faith in me."  
"I won't", Sherlock bit his lower lip when he realized the tremble in his own voice.  
John put the pillow aside and firmed his elbows on his knees. He looked keen into Sherlock's eyes.  
"You will stay the course, is that understood?"  
"Yes", the detective nodded.  
"Promise that to me!"  
"I promise."  
John folded his hands. "Are you scared?"  
"Yes."

* * *

"You are a goddamn an idiot!" John was trying to compete with his voice against the noise of the machine guns. "No, wait! I am a goddamn idiot! Why did I agree to this?"  
"Agree to what? To go to Somalia and return compromising documents that belong to the British Empire, or to get shot by a drunken rebel?" Sherlock was hiding behind a truck wrack, seeking for shelter from the volley.  
"Of course I was talking about the first part!" John jangled. He was trying to stop the bleeding on his leg with the help of his necktie.  
"Really? I thought it was idiotic when an experienced soldier gets wounded by some revolter."  
John balled his hand to a fist: "Well I'm a bit out of exercise!"  
"This is not the first case we are solving together." coughed Sherlock.  
John closed his eyes when a gust of wind raised more dust and let it crackle into his face.  
"We are talking about a conflict area in Africa and not about London!" answered John after he was able to speak again.  
"Your consideration to follow me here took exactly 3 seconds." determined Sherlock, looking dispraising at him.  
John sighted and leaned the back of his head to the truck. "Yes, yes… it's understood Mr. Data."  
"Who?"  
"Ah forget it.", said John.  
The pain in his leg started to grow and John realized that his circulation would soon capitulate.  
The volleys of their chasers stopped for a moment.  
"Sherlock, look at my leg. Together with me you won't get any far. I cannot run."  
The detective just frowned for a second. Even in this desperate situation he was still sending out such a high self-confidence, that John really questioned if Sherlock was aware of the seriousness of this situation. Maybe he was just megalomaniac.  
"Well you don't have to." said Sherlock.  
"What?" John did not understand a thing, especially not when Sherlock all of a sudden closed his eyes and started to sway his head as if he was listening to the melody of a symphony.  
"Can you hear it?" Sherlock asked.  
John did not know what to answer.  
He was still observing his counterpart and really started to doubt his mind. There was a man, dressed in T-Shirt and cargo pants, listening to imaginary music.  
"Sherlock, I…", John stopped talking. Still, there was something. In a very far distance he heard a noise that sounded like a washing machine in spin cycle. The noise came closer and now also the persecutors seemed to hear it. They started to discuss in a language John could not understand.  
"That's… that's a helicopter!" John shouted.  
"Yes, sometimes my brother can be of use for at least something."  
"Mycroft!" John stretched his arms like a prayer to the sky. "I never thought that I will ever be happy to see him."  
Sherlock agreed with a crooked smile.  
On the other side of the road, their followers started to shout.  
"How many shots do we have left?" asked the detective.  
John checked his gun although he already knew the answer. "Five."  
Sherlock reached his arm towards the weapon. "I think it's better if I rear cover you. The helicopter is not able to land that close to the street. You will have to run one last time."  
John understood. He handed the gun over to his friend.  
The rotor appeared on the horizon and John was trying to calm down his breath. He had to overcome his pain and fear. Either he would manage to do this final run or these would be the last 100 meters of his live.  
He felt the USB flash drive in his breast pocket, the corpus delicti that brought them into this situation. As soon as the flash drive would be on board of the helicopter, the world would be much more saver again. In spite of all this pain and tension, John realized again that he liked it when the adrenalin was pumping through his veins. Especially now, that the chopper was landing.  
The rebels only shot every now and then. Something seemed to be wrong.  
John stopped this thought when he felt Sherlock's hand on his shoulder. "Now!" the detective ordered.  
John jumped onto his feed. The pain blasted from his leg into all other parts of his body. He screamed out loud and this helped him to clear his view.  
"Run!" he heard Sherlock screaming behind him.  
Then hell was breaking loose.  
The helicopter landed and raised dust and little stones in his direction.  
At the same time, the rebels started to fire again. Every moment one of those shots could hit him, but John tried to forget about this fact.  
Two shots from his own weapon let him know that Sherlock was covering his back.  
In front of him he saw Mycroft, jumping out of the chopper. He was wearing a military coat and he tried to protect his eyes with his arm sleeve.  
"Faster Doctor Watson!" he shouted.  
John heard more shots, now further away, also from his own gun. One…two…three… the weapon chamber was empty.  
"What the hell is he doing there?" he heard Mycroft bawling. "Damn!" the older Holmes brother was swearing when he reached John.  
John noticed that Mycroft supported him and dragged him into the chopper. As soon as he was lying on the helicopters floor he heard Mycroft over him. "Do you have the data?" he asked.  
John nodded.  
The helicopter started.  
John heaved himself up. "What about Sherlock? He was straight behind me?"  
Mycroft disapproved. "No he wasn't."  
John forgot about the pain in his leg and stood up to be able to take a look out of the window. In the middle of a knot of people he could spot a man covered in dust, whose black hair was ruffled by the wind from the rotor. He had to kneel down and several people were pointing their guns at his head.  
"No!" John screamed. "Why did he not stick behind me?"  
"He did surrender." Mycroft whispered. "He abstracted the attackers to enable you to reach the helicopter at any rate."

* * *

It was dark, and the air smelled like damp, musty earth. He felt something dripping down his forehead and it took him a while to find out if it was blood or just sweat. The pain in his head exploded, but the clear liquid now dripping into his eye was definitely only salty water.

Short time after the helicopter had disappeared they had knocked him out. He must have been unconscious because he could not remember how he came here. But one thing was for sure: John was safe.  
To stay behind had been the only solution.

Sherlock stood up carefully and took a look around. The room around him did not have any windows, the walls were chopped out of pure rocks. One single bulb lightened up the room. It was pretty obvious that he was locked inside a cave. They must have dragged him back to the place where John and he did steal the flash drive. However, this room he did not know yet. Sherlock searched for an object he could use for self defense, but the room was absolutely empty. They did not chain him, therefore Sherlock was sure that the other side of the door was heavily guarded. They would not grant him any chance to getaway.  
Sherlock heard voices coming closer, and then someone opened the door. The detective already knew who would enter the room and he also knew that the mood of this person would be really unpleasant.

"You bloody asshole! Give me the code!", the blond man yelled at him.  
"Do you know how high the penalty is for treason?" replied Sherlock and gathered a furious kick into the gut.  
The man in front of him was British and the betrayer who hacked the secret data. Several Somali rebels gathered around him. They did not seem to understand English, however orders the betrayer gave them in their own language were carried out immediately. Especially the order to twist Sherlock's arms to his back.  
"Well Mr. Banner, from my point of view it was not your best idea to lock the armory with a numerical code.", Sherlock moaned. "If I've had more time I would have just blown everything up."  
Banner stepped in front of him. His eyes blazed. "To steal the flash drive is one thing" he fizzed. "But that you have changed the code to my weapon chamber really pisses me off. Now I cannot pay these lovely guys."  
Sherlock answered with a crossed smile.  
Banner salivated. "Do you have any idea what these guys are going to do if they realize that I don't have access to the weapons anymore? They are going to kill us both!"  
Sherlock still smiled.  
"I won't allow this." said Banner. "The only one who will bite the dust is you. But before that you will give me the code. Even if I have to rip out your guts, believe me, you will tell me!"  
Sherlock sighted quietly. "Sorry, I don't think so."  
Banners reply to this was a punch into Sherlock's face. Something thick and warm ran down his cheek and this time it was not sweat.  
"Go! Beat the hell out of him." Banner jelled at his companions.  
Sherlock closed his eyes, took a deep breath and let himself down.

* * *

**221B**

Sherlock did not have to open his eyes, because the smell of the room was already familiar and much more pleasant than the must inside the cave.

He slowly opened his eyelids and for a second he was blinded by the daylight. Pretty soon the furniture of his flat appeared.

He was sitting in the chair next to the fireplace. Sherlock stretched himself and enjoyed the moment when he realized that he finally was wearing clean and fresh clothing. Everything felt all right apart from a constant beating in the far distance.

"Sherlock, someone is knocking at the entry door downstairs." Mrs. Hudson stood in front of him and looked as if she was really worried. "Do you know these people?"

Sherlock nodded.

"So why don't you let them in then?"

"Because they are bad people."

Mrs. Hudson winced. "Oh no! Hopefully not again those racketeers that broke in the last time, searching for the phone of this lovely lady. It was…"

"Mrs. Hudson please shut up!" interrupted Sherlock. "Did you not want to bring me a cup of tea or something like that?"

"Well you should know that I can't do that." said Mrs. Hudson and all of a sudden her face turned into a mask with no emotions.

Sherlock frowned.

"I can't do that because I am not real. You know that!" she explained

"Of course I know." Sherlock sighted.

The beating became louder and impatient.

"What if they bang in the door?" she questioned.

"Never, Mrs. Hudson. Your house is a fortress. You have chosen a good and strong building."

"I really hope so." she said and slight smile appeared back on her lips. Then her body faded and all of a sudden she was gone, just like a ghost.

* * *

**Reality**

"Damn! Open your mouth! Give me the code!" yelled Matthew Banner.

His gofers had beaten up Sherlock Holmes unswervingly. Now the detective was lying on the floor and did not move at all. Since Banner had started to torture him, Holmes seemed to have fallen into some state of trance.

Any normal person would have already screamed because of the pain but this weird guy just moaned every now and then. Nothing more.

Even in this moment he was just cowering on the floor and his eyes were looking at an imaginary point in the corner of the room.

"I have no idea at which agent school you were studying 007, but I will find out what I need to know. Did you hear me?"

Banner kicked his foot into Sherlock's stomach just to show him how angry he was. The detective did not say a word.

"Ok my friend. Anything you can, I can do better. There are so many other methods I can use on you to let you finally open your mouth."

* * *

**221B**

"Ouch!" Sherlock flipped a little Hummingbird off his arm. The animal must have had been trapped in a crease of his shirt and then stung him in a moment of fear. The thorn burned a bit underneath his skin.

Sherlock stood up to hold his arm under cold water, but all of a sudden he noticed a shadow behind him.

He turned around and the person sitting in front of his Laptop really surprised him. "Gary?"

"I don't think that this is my name." said Lestrate while chewing the last bite of a Doughnut.

Sherlock bit his lower lip and took a moment to think properly. "Aaahmmm… Gustav? George…? Gavin? It was something starting with a G."

Lestrade licked the sugar from his fingers and looked at Sherlock as if he was still waiting for the right answer.

"Gerome? … Oh I really don't know. You tell me."

Lestrade shrugged. "As you are aware, I'm basically you at this moment. And as you don't have any clue about my name, I don't have a clue either. Sorry, can't help you with this case."

"Lestrade is no help in a case. Well, that's not completely new for me." whispered Sherlock.

"Oi! That's not fair! It's your fault!" complained the policemen.

Sherlock pulled up a chair and sat down in front of Lestrade. "Why are you here?"

Lestrade crossed his legs. "I'm here because I want to ask you a few questions."

"Oh! A Q&A. How exiting!"

"Ok. What I need to know is…"

"Oh no!" Sherlock interrupted. "We are in my mind palace. That means we are playing by my rules."

"Ok?"

"You can still ask questions, but they have to be my questions." He pulled a piece of paper out of his trouser pocked and unfolded it to a bigger sheet. It had several questions printed on it.

"I have prepared this especially for occasions like these." said Sherlock and passed the sheet on to Lestrade.

Lestrade seemed to be confused, but he took the sheet and read the first question out.

"What's your favorite colour?" he asked stammering.

"Blue." answered Sherlock and he could not refrain from grinning.

* * *

**Reality**

Injecting the truth drug was a piece of cake. Sherlock had not defended himself at all when they plunged the needle into his arm.

But when Banner started to ask the first test questions he hardly believed his ears.

"What's your name?"

"Gary?" mumbled Sherlock.

Banner took a deep breath, trying to restrain the newly growing anger.

"Oh no, I know from a reliable source that you are the famous detective from London and the drug I have just dispensed to you will confirm this. So, what's your name?"

"Aaahmmm… Gustav? George…? Gavin? It was something starting with a G."

Banner hit the table with his fist. "For fuck's sake, stop fighting back! The drugs will also work on you so stop playing games! Your name is Sherlock Holmes! Who was the other guy?"

"Gerome? … Oh I really don't know. You tell me."

Banner jumped up and dashed his chair across the room. One of the rebels had to dodge.

"Tell me the damn code to the armory!"

"Oh! A Q&A. How exiting!" Sherlock answered with a very kind smile on his lips.

Banner positioned himself in front of the detective and looked straight into his eyes. He was so close to Sherlock that their noses nearly touched.

"Give me the code!"

"Blue."

"It is a damn numerical code!" Banner yelled into Sherlock's face.

"Lucy in the sky with diamonds."

"What?"

"Oh this is a really good question: Abraham Lincoln."

Banner left the room.

* * *

**221B**

After Lestrade had left, everything became really quiet. Since hours nothing had happened and Sherlock lay down on the sofa and stared at the ceiling. He was trying to concentrate but somehow his thoughts always drifted to a dark cave in Somalia. Just like someone had tied his mind to a twine and was now pulling slowly on the other end. Reality seemed to come closer and since the sun had gone down, his flat changed gradually into a different place. Mixed with the shadows of the twilight, the colors of the wallpaper appeared to be washed out. Sometimes he even had the feeling that the ceiling came closer and the room was shrinking. He rolled over to the side and there she was.

The long, blonde hair was tied to a side ponytail and she was wearing an old fashioned jumper which somehow punctuated her friendly character just in the right way.

"Molly!" Sherlock sat up.

"Hi Sherlock!" She tried to smile but something seemed to worry her.

"What are you doing here?"

Molly approached him and took a place next to him on the sofa. The cushions retreated and forced her to slide a little bit too close to Sherlock. She winced as her knee accidentally touched his upper leg. She blushed and turned her face away.

"Am I assuming right that you know how long the human brain can survive without oxygen?" she asked.

"Yes of course." Sherlock was confused. "Why do you ask?"

Molly looked back at him and lifted her hand. He felt her warm fingers touching his cheek like a piece of porcelain. It gave him a good feeling. Much better than the rest of the flat, that had turned into a dark and cold place. Something creaked in the roof beams above him. At first gently but after a while it got louder. Just like a water pipe that was going to burst.

Molly leaped up and the cosy warmth next to him disappeared immediately. Sherlock had to wrap his arms around himself to prevent him from freezing.

"What's happening?"

"I'm so, so sorry." said Molly. "I wish I could help you, but the only thing I can advise is: Take a deep breath!"

"What?"

A loud gurgle from inside the wall let him jump up. Something was moving underneath the wallpaper and all of a sudden it started to expand like a water balloon. Sherlock backed off.

"Molly! What's happening?"

Nobody answered. Molly was gone.

The room started to creak in every corner just as if a giant hand was trying to crush the flat. Big bubbles appeared on every wall.

Sherlock was standing in the middle of the room when it happened. One of the bubbles split open and a massive gush of water hurtled towards him and rushed him off his feet. Sherlock was flushed to the other side of the room and his back crashed into the wall. The pain welled tears into his eyes and he gasped for air.

"Take a deep breath!" he heard Mollys last words. But there was no more air. Instead of oxygen, his nose and mouth were flooded with water. Automatically he started to cough and tried to disgorge the water again, but each cough made it worse. Sherlock started to panic and he tried to rebound, but at the same time further water bubbles erupted. Even the ceiling was leaking water now.

Sherlock realized that he was losing control. He was trying to find something on which he could drag himself out of the floods, but his hands did not reach anything. He felt the cold water carving its way into his lungs and it stung like 1000 needles inside his body. His body did not obey his mind any more and kept trying to breathe air where only water existed. Mist emerged in front of his eyes like a blinded window and through this window he saw a face.

Banner!

Sherlock screamed, but instead of a sound, only bubbles appeared. He tried to fight back, tried to throw this criminal out of his mind palace. This flat was the only getaway spot from the torture, but the mainstays got underwashed by the water.

Pictures fell of the walls, furniture tumbled over and his books were floating on the water surface. Sherlock squinted and Banners face was gone. The pain and the breathlessness stayed. He needed Oxygen. Now!

* * *

**Reality**

Banner triumphed and clapped his hands when the detective started screaming. Finally! He was sure that it would not take any longer until the man was ultimately broken.

He nodded towards his henchman and backed off to avoid getting drenched. Sherlock coughed and gasped for air, but Banners helper did not allow that. He pulled the detectives hair and dragged him back under water. Sherlock slashed around himself and tried to find grip on the battered laundry tub. He slipped off and Banner observed with relish how the detective's movements started to become uncontrolled and weak.

"Got you." he whispered.

Sherlock was dragged out of the water again and panted for breath.

"Tell me the code!" yelled Banner.

Sherlock was not able to talk, as he still was out of air. He vomited quantities of water and Banner could tell from his glimpse that he still would not surrender. Not yet.

The henchman pushed him back under water and Banner feasted himself by watching the detective losing his forces. Sherlock prostrated and hung over the tub like a dead piece of meat. Yes, this guy should suffer for what he had done.

A loud rumble divorced him from his thoughts.

"What is that?"

Banners helpers startled up. Dust fluttered from the ceiling.

* * *

**221B**

Sherlock grabbed his own throat. One last cough gave him a feeling like someone had ripped out his bowels. He felt sick, but the water did not allow him to vomit. He closed his eyes and tried to push himself up for one last time. He did not manage.

Then, all of a sudden he felt pressure on his left arm. Just as if someone had tied a loop around it. The loop tightened with force and pulled him around. Sherlock did not fight back and when he was escalated he realized that it was no loop but 2 strong hands that held him.

Someone pulled him up. Sherlock felt the water departing from him and finally he was able to breathe.

Convulsive cough shook his body and he purged the water out of his lungs. The saving air streamed through his body and hurt him like thousands of sharp edged ice crystals. It was painful, but Sherlock enjoyed the torture that meant being alive.

The hands holding him eased their grip. Sherlock fell on his knees and took further, deep breaths until he finally was able to see clear again.

The flooding had stopped and the water was escaping underneath the door. Sherlock sensed somebody kneeling down next to him. A hand touched him comforting between his shoulders.

Sherlock turned around and what he saw brought tears to his eyes.

"John!" he whispered. "I knew you would come.

„How much time is left? ", John was picking the arm rest.

"Not much. They are nearly here." said Sherlock quietly. He looked at his best friend who was sitting in the armchair opposite to him. John squeezed the union jack pillow under his arm so that the flag warped into an abstract pattern.

Sherlock enjoyed it to look at him and to listen to his voice that always made him feel comfortable.

"No matter what is going to happen," said John. "I want you to know that I will always be there for you. Please don't give up having faith in me."

"I won't", Sherlock bit his lower lip when he realized the tremble in his own voice.

John put the pillow aside and firmed his elbows on his knees. He looked keen into Sherlock's eyes.

"You will stay the course, is that understood?"

"Yes", the detective nodded.

"Promise that to me!"

"I promise."

John folded his hands. "Are you scared?"

"Yes."

Something banged so heavy against the door that it nearly took off its hinges. Sherlock's heart started to beat heavily against his chest.

The water was gone, but the furniture lay everywhere and the wallpaper fell off the walls. 221B Baker street was a shaken fortress, which was about to fall in battle.

Again, something smashed into the door, angry and without mercy.

Sherlock tried to concentrate on John. His best friend looked at him in silence. He seemed to be sad and helpless.

"You are going to find me! I have no doubt in that!"

John did not say anything but replied with a short nod.

Splinters cracked out of the door when another stroke nearly knocked it down. Sherlock jumped up and catapulted his armchair in front of it.

"No one will enter! This is my mind palace! Did you hear that? It's MY mind palace!" Sherlock yelled at the door as if his words could build an additional wall. With full force he pushed himself against the chair, trying to keep the intruders out of his flat.

"Sherlock!" he heard his friend saying. John was staring at Sherlock's stomach and when he followed his friends view he saw a dark red stain starting to spread on his shirt.

Together with the insight, pain emerged. Sherlock pushed his hands on his side, trying to stop the bleeding. His legs softened and he slumped to the floor. "John…"

The intruders hit the door again, but Sherlock was not able to stand up any more. The room started to spin and then the door crashed.

* * *

**Reality**

Sherlock screamed. The cave ceiling above him revealed that his resistance had been broken. Banner pushed him to the ground and tried to stab him a second time. Sherlock blocked the attack and grabbed Banners hand, but he realized immediately that he would not be strong enough to win this fight. Around them people seemed to be utterly confused. The rebels were shouting foreign words, grabbed as much as they could carry with their own hands and then left the cave. Something was happening outside.

Sherlock heard gunfire, but Banner was unimpressed by that. His expression had turned into a grotesque face. He yelled at the detective and his slaver dripped on to Sherlock's forehead. "They found us! And thanks to you we cannot defend ourselves because we don't have access to our weapons! I'm going to butcher you for this you bastard! Neither of us will get out alive!"

Banner yanked up the knife and lunged out for the final stab. Sherlock closed his eyes.

Then another gunshot resounded through the cave.

Banner howled and Sherlock felt that the body of the racketeer rose up.

Carefully he opened his eyes again and saw that Banner was charging towards the door. A soldier stood there and his weapon aimed precisely into Banners direction. When Banner lifted his knife again, the soldier fired. The offender fell to the ground.

Three other mavericks charged towards the soldier. The military man spun around and stroke down the first offender with a pinpointed shot. The gun clicked and revealed that there were no bullets left. But this did not stop the soldier. Like lightning he approached offender number 2 and distorted his arm. A quick punch to his carotid knocked him out immediately. Attacker number three was brought down with a pitiless knuckle on his head.

Silence eventuated.

Sherlock moaned and squinted. The soldier slowly approached him. Something was wrong with his tread. He walked with a limp.

Only when he reached the detective and kneeled down making a soft grunt, Sherlock was certain.

"Are you real?" Sherlock whispered.

"You are talking nonsense." answered John.

Sherlock felt the warmth of a tear finding its way down his cheek.

"Oh dear, you look awful." reckoned John while he was helping Sherlock to get back on his feet. "Come on. Let's take you back home. Mycroft and his people took care of the rest of the gang. You are save now."

"Well,… that was pretty impressive." gasped Sherlock.

"What?"

"Your Intervention. So you definitely are a soldier and not an idiot."

"I'm a doctor! And as a doctor, I advise you to better shut your mouth." smirked John.

Sherlock could not help laughing. He paused and looked at his friend.

"John?" he said gently.

"Yes?"

"Thank you."

THE END


End file.
